angels (dying)
by fiesa
Summary: Cassandra Clare – Lord of Shadows. "That's not an option." (Julian Blackthorn sold his soul a long time ago.) OneShot- Julian Blackthorn (Emma Carstairs). (Following the events of "Lord of Shadows".)


**angels (dying)**

 _Summary: Cassandra Clare – Lord of Shadows. "That's not an option." (Julian Blackthorn sold his soul a long time ago.) OneShot- Julian Blackthorn (Emma Carstairs). (Following the events of "Lord of Shadows".)_

 _Warning: Rated for angst, drama and character death. One shot._

 _Set: Immediately following the events of "Lord of Shadows"._

 _Disclaimer: Standards apply. Quote by Peter S. Beagle, "The Last Unicorn"._

* * *

 _"_ _I think that love is stronger than habits or circumstances. I think it is possible to keep yourself for someone for a long time, and still remember why you were waiting when she comes at last."_

 _…_

"Jules!"

Ty and Livvy were building a sand castle. It was curious, Julian reflected, half-asleep, how the two halves of it represented the twins: Tiberius' part was neat and collected, carefully placed; and gave off a certain air of detachedness. Olivia's was neat alright but more creative and a tad messy, and the sea shells she had gathered decorated the walls. Next to him, in the shadow of an umbrella, Emma was reading a book to Tavvy. The sound of her soft voice was almost hypnotic.

"Hm?"

Emma glanced up, and the sight of the sun catching in her golden hair – up in a messy knot – made his heart twist.

Dru called out, again. "Look, Jules! A starfish!"

At her call, Livvy and Ty ambled over to the small tide pools Drusilla had been investigating.

"I want to see, too!"

Emma closed her book, throwing Tavvy the kind of glance that Julian was so familiar with – exasperation, patience and love all in one – and gracefully stood, holding out her hand to him.

 _Beautiful._ Julian was momentarily blinded by her sight.

He forced his feelings back, smiled at Emma and got up, as well; taking Tavvy's other, eagerly extended, hand. The twins and Dru were already clustered around the shallow tide pool.

"Hermit crab."

Ty extended a hand, carefully, and instead of hiding away the crab ambled over his fingers, coming to rest in his hand. The children stood, mesmerized. Julian gazed at his family – his children, beloved, and Emma, most precious in the world –

"Why didn't you save me?"

Mark's eyes were huge and full of blame, and Julian flinched back, grabbing Emma's hand tighter. There were welts of blood on his brother's arms when he extended them towards him, signs of the Fair Folk's cruelty.

"You abandoned us."

Helen's voice was cold, and so were her eyes. He had never seen his eldest sister anything but warm and loving before, now, the hatred in her features was staggering. He reared back, beyond words.

"You let me die." Livvy's eyes were dead, blood drenched the front of her shirt.

"You let her die," Ty echoed, the blame in his voice more cutting than a Seraph blade.

Dru and Tavvy's faces twisted with accusation. "You were supposed to protect us."

Julian couldn't help it: he staggered back, tugging Emma with him, lifting his other hand as if to protect himself.

"No," he said, his voice not making a sound. " _No._ "

Emma's hand slipped from his grasp and when he turned to look at her he felt his limbs turn to ice.

"You cursed us all," she said, without any inflection. The distance in her eyes shattered his heart.

Julian Blackthorn wakes up.

* * *

People say that after the storm comes the silence.

They may be right or not – Julian doesn't really care. His world has been shrouded in silence since the moment Livvy died in his arms, on the dais of the Hall of Accords, two days ago, and he _doesn't care_. Olivia is dead – his little baby girl, the first of his siblings he ever held. The Council is in tatters since Annabel Blackthorn killed the Inquisitor, the Cohort using the stunned disbelief for their own, perverted agenda. The Downworlder representatives have arrived in Idris but are held in different places – for their own protection, of course, and Magnus is still unconscious. The Unseelie King has Annabel and the Black Volume and the Nephilim might be facing the greatest danger since Jonathan Morgenstern incited the Dark War.

And Julian – Julian doesn't care.

Livvy's body looks so _small_ on the table, dressed in the white mourning clothes. Her hair falls around her face like a lovely veil.

Helen and Mark are with Ty, Dru and Tavvy. Julian hasn't seen them since he lifted Livvy's fragile body up and carried it all the way to the morgue. He has cleaned her, dressed her, performed all the necessary rites without ever once looking away. Without ever shedding a tear. Then he brought her to the Hall of Accords, and he has been here ever since. She is his baby sister, his little girl, and she looks so small and lost and young on the large stone table that he just can't bring himself to leave her.

 _Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._

He falls asleep during his death watch – succumbs to the exhaustion burning through him that is shifting between making him even more awake and clubbing him into oblivion with a mind-numbing blast – only to have nightmares. They come and go, leaving him shivering and in tears, and he curls up into himself until the sobs have subsided somewhat. But he cannot bring himself to leave. It is his fault, his fault alone.

Annabel should have killed him.

Nephilim guards come to take Livvy's body away on the third day. Julian tries to fight them – his baby girl, how _dare they_ touch her – but after two days without anything to eat and close to no sleep he's so weak they overpower him easily. Livvy is carried away by four white-clothed, silent men and Julian just – just collapses. Helen's arms come around him, he hasn't seen her arriving and he doesn't care. She is crying silently, tears of grief running down her face without making a sound, but her voice is gentle.

"Come with me, Jules. You have to eat something, and shower. She wouldn't want to see you like this."

He doesn't move.

"I thought I would feel better," he tells her, instead, and his eldest sister flinches but her arms never loosen. "I thought when you finally came back again, everything would be okay."

Helen hugs him so hard it hurts.

Over her shoulder, Julian sees Aline, and she has her arms around – _Emma_. Emma, who looks pale, drawn and exhausted, her hair loose and unkempt, as if she hasn't slept for the past few days, either.

"Let's get you home," Aline says and Julian sees Emma shake her head, once, but it the force of denial in it is wrecking. Emma, clearly, is going nowhere.

 _Emma._

A flash of memory: he hasn't felt their bond stretch. In the past days, he hasn't experienced the horrifying sensation of being cut loose, a sensation he endured for too long now and that he loathes more than anything. It felt like that while he was in London, those months when the Blackthorns spent their vacation there and Emma had stayed at the Los Angeles Institute. Julian had enjoyed the time. He had played with his siblings, had drawn, had walked through the bustling city with a sense of calm. And yet, it had always been there: the alien and familiar feeling of _loss._ Of not being grounded. Like being a paper crane, tossed around wildly by the stormy winds, no safe port in sight, nowhere to go. The feeling disappeared, suddenly, when he stood in the entrance hall of the Los Angeles Institute again and saw _(felt)_ Emma running towards him, her eyes full of relief. At that time he had thought it had been their _parabatai_ bond that had made them miss each other, because, at that time, he couldn't imagine Emma loving him back. But no matter the cause the sensation had become familiar, and while it has returned often since then Julian cannot remember having felt it for the past two days. Two days since Livvy died, endless pain and grief, and not one second has he _not_ felt Emma.

Which means she had been _there_ , all the time.

* * *

Emma Carstairs knows sorrow.

It is like a black hole, an immeasurably huge, completely engulfing vortex that gobbles up pain and grief, devours anger and hurt and blame and self-hatred, and yet – it gives nothing, in return. It just _takes._ And it is so easy to just give up and let oneself be swallowed up completely, to let go of everything. To give in to hatred and self-destruction. It is so easy to just let the black-rimmed void take and take and _take_ , and to become less and less and less of what one once had been.

Grief is bottomless, unpitying and uncaring. To some, it is merely another challenge to take on. Other people… It kills them.

Emma knows sorrow. Her own grief does not pale in comparison to Julian's; and his is not less than hers. That is because Julian's grief is hers, as well, and it is as if his pain is her pain, like her own sorrow over her parent's death, even now, years later, is as unbearable and crushing as his grief over his sister. Julians pain mingles with hers, old and new and new and old, gives and takes and adds it to hers. And their combined grief echoes backwards and outwards and reflects and returns. It builds up into a tidal wave that threatens to crash down on both of them any second, and she is not sure whether they will survive it.

 _But we have to._

For Helen, Mark, Ty, Dru and Tavvy. Even for Christina, and Aline, and perhaps for Diana, as well.

Julian looks at her, over Helen's shoulder. His arms are slack, hanging limply at his sides; when Helen finally rises and leads him out of the hall he simply follows, wordlessly. The silence scares her almost more than the constant screaming that has been his mind; the raging, grief-stricken lament that had, soundlessly and yet clear as crystal, resounded in her ears since the moment Livvy had died.

Emma… Emma is tired.

Tired of sorrow. Tired of guilt. Tired of the barrage of emotions she feels when she looks at the one person that is the only one in the world that she will ever love like this. Tired of hate and anger, because what she and Julian have should be beautiful; sacred, even. The love they share should not be _cursed_ ; Emma'd rather die than lose what they have. But she'd also rather die than let anything happen to the kids, and look where that has taken them.

They have gone through so much together, but they never broke before.

They are close to it this time. Emma knows, and Julian knows, as well. They're hanging on to the last thread of a fraying rope, dangling over the abyss, and neither one of them is willing to let go. But they can't survive together. They are so close to falling, so close to breaking that she can hear the sound of it, and the worst thing is: she _wants_ to. What good is this, their life, if they can't even protect the people they love most?

The fire burns bright against the sky, the silhouette of Alicante a black and silver papercut against the slowly darkening night.

They stand at Livvy's pyre for hours, long after the Consul and the official guards have left, long after Helen has taken the little ones and Ty back to the Blackthorn Manor, where they are staying. Ty just walks behind her, blindly, like a puppet with cut strings. Long after Mark has left and Christina, with an apologetic glance towards Emma, follows him into the shadows. Emma and Julian stand at Olivia Blackthorn's funeral pyre and watch, still as statues, until even the last trace of her human remains have turned to ash.

"Ave atque vale, Olivia Blackthorn."

It changes nothing.

Blackthorn Manor is tall, dark and imposing. But there is light in the windows and Helen seems to have made the kitchen inhabitable, because there is a delicious scent coming from the half-open window. It almost seems inviting, so at odds with the fact that neither one of them wants to be there. Helen and Aline make them eat something, fussing, their love and their sorrow making it so hard to breathe Emma almost chokes, and she probably should be deliriously exhausted but she is wide awake. Eventually, Helen sends them to bed and they go, leaving Helen and Aline in the kitchen. She thinks she saw Helen begin to cry again when they left, but there is no sound heart.

The corridor is long and dark.

There is room after room with dark, closed doors that seem to exude the same sensation of overwhelming grief than the people sleeping behind them experience, no doubt. Emma remembers how Julian always left his door open slightly, just in case one of the little ones woke up at night and called out for him. Because they shared their room so often in the past - before everything became too complicated - she had learned to sleep with the door open, too, the sounds of the Los Angeles Institute following her into her dreams, together with Julian's steady breathing and the warmth of his presence. That time seems like eternities past.

Her bedroom is next to Julian's.

She stops in front of her door to look at her _parabatai_. He looks utterly exhausted, deep, black circles stretch out under his eyes; his dark hair and his pale skin make him seem almost painfully ghost-like and remote. Emma doesn't realize she stretched out her hand until she is wrapped up in him – he is clinging to her, her hands are fisted in his shirt – and it is impossible to let go. There are a million reasons why what she is about to do is not right, and none of them matters.

"Come in," she whispers, and Julian nods, his breath hot against her skin.

The sheets smell faintly of lavender and forest but Emma only smells and feels and sees Julian. She closes her eyes and lets him hold her, and holds on to him so tightly it must hurt him. He never flinches even once. Emma can barely breathe for the pain in her heart, and she knows it is the same for him. So she clings to him with everything she has, grounding both herself and him in the only way she knows.

"Emma," Julian whispers and his voice sounds like sandpaper on iron. "Emma."

 _It's my fault. It's my fault. I failed. I got her killed –_

She can hear his thoughts, as if he had said them out loud, and the guilt in his eyes breaks her heart. "It's not your fault, Julian."

 _Jules._ She almost called him Jules, because he feels so small and young and fragile in her arms, but at the same time, it is _Julian._ Her Julian, always and forever.

He stills at her words, or maybe at her thoughts, she never can be sure. She lifts her head a bit, leans back to look at him. The brokenness shining from his eyes chokes her. She repeats herself, full of conviction.

"It's not your fault."

Julian rears up to life, rage flooding his cheeks with color.

He pushes her away, scrambles up to sit, his eyes sparking with self-hatred. " _Don't ever lie to me!"_ Jagged crystal, and it aches, each and every sharp splinter burying itself in her heart. "It _is_ my fault, and you know it. I was the one who manipulated Annabel, I brought her to the Hall of Accords, I couldn't calm her-" He pauses, breathing heavily. "I got Livvy killed, and you _know_ that, Emma. So don't pretend it wasn't my fault!"

Emma sits very, very still, only looks at him. He is wild and broken and beautiful, her Julian, and she loves him so much and their grief is so all-encompassing, so earth-shatteringly _alive,_ that she would not have been surprised to see it leave them and take on a physical shape between the two of them.

His calm is back almost as quickly, his anger ruthlessly stomped on and suppressed, and his hands card through his hair. shaking.

"I'm sorry. Emma, I'm sorry."

She nods, mute.

"But you see it, can't you? Livvy's death was only another link in a chain full of wrong decisions. _My_ decisions. I tried so hard to keep all of us together, and I failed. I _failed."_ His hands are fisted so tightly she can see the blood drain from his knuckles.

"It's lucky Helen came back," he continues, looking towards the window, at the mirror, over to the shelf. Everywhere but at her. "I can't stay with the kids anymore."

* * *

Julian has felt many things in his life.

Anger and hatred, love and happiness. Annoyance and patience, especially strained patience. He has younger siblings, after all. Grief, jealousy, rage. Fear. Surprise, fondness and laughter, the feeling of protecting and being protected.

But he never, ever, has felt so tired that he could not feel anything anymore.

With the exhaustion comes the realization.

 _I can't stay._

He needs to go. It have been his actions – his responsibility – it have been his actions that have made everything go wrong. Granted, he doesn't know what would have happened had he told the Clave of Arthur's madness or Mark's return or their journey to the fairy lands, or what would have happened had he not forced Annabel to testify. But it doesn't matter, ultimately. His schemes and his plans have endangered them all, have almost gotten Tavvy killed and have cost Livvy her life. Julian is _the reason_ _Livvy is dead_. He has tried to protect his siblings, has taken care of them, has _loved_ them – and it hasn't been enough. There is only one possibility left: he has to leave. If he is the one endangering everyone he loves, there is no other choice to be made. The only fear he has is what will happen to his siblings one he is gone.

But it is simple, really, crystal clear. He should have realized much earlier.

There is one person Julian would trust not only his life with but his siblings' lives, as well, without any argument, without even the slightest sliver of hesitation. There is one person he would want to take care of Mark, Ty, Dru and Tavvy if he died, one person he knows inside out, the one person he could never betray. The decision is made easily because Emma is the strongest person he knows. Emma loves the Blackthorn children as much as he does, she will take care of them no matter what happens. Julian wouldn't trust anyone with his siblings' lives, but he trusts Emma. And besides, it's – it's the greatest sacrifice he can ever make.

"It makes sense," he says, the plan slowly forming in his head. Julian forces himself to look at all angles, go through all possible outcomes. He's good at that. It has helped him before, when he had to communicate with the Clave, and his success speaks for himself: has he not managed to conceal the truth behind the Los Angeles Institute from the Clave for six years? "I have to leave. I'll go into exile, that way you can stay with the kids, Emma. It's what we planned, anyway."

Not like that, no. But – it might work.

He feels sick at the thought that follows in the wake of his plan for his sibling's safety. How can he think of breaking the curse on Emma and him, even think of defeating it, when Livvy is not even three days dead and his entire family is at risk, placed there by his own, damn hubris?

Julian loves Emma, but he can't be with her.

Julian loves his siblings as much as he loves Emma, but he can't stay with them, either.

So he'll do the only thing he _can_ do: He'll walk away for their protection, save them from himself. But he won't leave them to fend for themselves. He will give them Emma, instead, because he would give them his heart but Emma has been holding on to it for so long now that she kind of has _become_ his heart.

And that, in effect, is all that matters.

(Julian Blackthorn sold his soul a long, long time ago.)

He leans over to his _parabatai_ , cups her cheek with his hand. "Promise me you'll take care of them, Emma."

Emma's eyes are downcast. Julian looks down, too, and sees her hands clenched into fists; they are shaking, subtly. And then she lifts her hand and drives it forward; the punch throws him onto his back and flat onto the mattress, and then Emma is above him, her hair in disarray, her eyes shining with tears and anger.

"Have you lost your mind, Julian Blackthorn?"

He stares up at her, feeling the pain spark, slowly subside and fade, but the tears in her eyes sting worse than turpentine in open wounds.

"Don't ever say something like that again, or I swear I'll punch you to Heaven come!"

"Emma-"

"Don't _Emma_ me! Forget about that crap!"

Her voice breaks. Julian lifts a hand, catches a tear rolling down her face. _Emma never cries,_ he thinks, almost distantly. _Never._

"This is my fault, isn't it?"

He starts in surprise, his hand hanging in the air between them. " _What_? No! How did you reach that conclusion?"

She bites her lip. "Because I said I was afraid of you."

"What? No! You're not fault at all, I am the one to blame!"

She looks murderous. "If you say that one more time, I'm not pulling my punches anymore. Do you really know why I told you I was afraid?"

He sighs. "I know."

Her eyes – grey-blue-grey and beautiful – bore into his. "Tell me."

"Emma-"

" _Tell me."_

He hates this, really. Hates seeing the tears in her eyes, hates being the one to put them there. Hates the fact that this is the only way, and that he would hurt her even worse in order for her to accept – _Oh._ Sudden realization almost pushes aside every other thought: So that was what she had intended when she pretended to date Mark _._ They are so alike; it's like she can read his heart and his mind, can feel what he feels. It's like they're two parts of a whole, inseparable. And just like that, all fight leaves him. Julian drops his gaze, drops his attack plan, drops his defense.

"Because you're not afraid of anything. Because you're only afraid _for me_."

She bites her lips. "I am afraid of losing you. And yes, I am afraid _for_ you. You can't continue on like this, Julian."

His laughter sounds hollow to his own ears as he collapses back onto the mattress, curls in on himself, all fight gone. "I know. But I don't know any other way."

In her face he can read her worry for him, her grief for Livvy, her love for the other kids. "This has to stop, Julian. I know you would do anything for Ty, Dru, Tavvy and Mark. And Helen. But you can't go against the whole world all by yourself."

"I know." He grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes in order to not have to look at her, but her face is burned into the back of his eye lids, has been since forever. "But that's just it, Emma. I will, if I have to. I'll gladly betray the entirety of the Nephilim if it means you and the kids are safe. It's the only thing I can do."

Emma is silent.

"I know I'm ruthless. I know I'm cold. I'd have killed Erec, Emma, I really would have, Unseelie Prince or not. I used Nightshade as a pawn, and Kieran, and even Annabel. Nightshade turned out to be guilty, my luck, and we have Mark and Christina to thank that Kieran didn't just run off and leave us, but Annabel? She _trusted_ me. She was betrayed before and she decided to trust me nevertheless, and look what happened."

He feels like being violently ill, but the words need to be said. Taking on the pain he deserves is the only way he can atone.

"I got Livvy killed, Emma. I could just as well have swung that sword my-"

Emma falls onto him so hard the air is knocked straight from his lungs, which is bad, because he is already close to hyperventilating. But the familiar weight on his chest is reassuring, the softness of her cheek next to his, wet and hot. The way her hair tickles his chin. She presses herself against him almost aggressively; there is barely space for their clothes between them. And despite the many things Emma being so close would have done to him in the past, now, the only thing that she does is ground him, the unmatched pressure of her oh-so-familiar body an anchor that weights him down and prevents him from drifting. It buries all the grief, sorrow, worry and pain deep within him instead of letting it consume him.

With a broken sob Julian wraps his arms around her and crushes her body even closer to his.

* * *

In the past, Emma sometimes had the feeling that it was her who clung to Julian more than the other way round.

She had always dismissed the thought because she sure as hell wasn't clingy. And yet, when she thought of it, there had been more occasions of her reaching out for him than him holding on to her. But now, Julian's arms are wrapped around her so tightly she can feel every inch of him, every curve of his body, press against her. He is shaking, his breathing ragged, his face buried in her hair. She wants to stay like this - Julian, Julian, hers alone - wants to spend eternity in his arms like that. Never get up, never face reality, never let go. But that's impossible. If it was only her, she might have considered it, but this is Julian, whose sense of obligation and responsibility for the kids is larger than anything, Julian, who is ready to leave the thing most precious to him in her hands because he thinks he cannot protect it anymore. And that... That's _wrong_.

Emma lifts her upper body, places her hands on his chest and _looks at him_.

"Listen. You are used to doing things all by yourself. I am sorry for that. I should have noticed something earlier, with Arthur, I should have helped you more than I did. But now I know. And you have to let me help. You don't have to leave in order to protect us, Julian. Don't you have any faith in me?"

Her voice becomes louder, she forces herself to speak softly but the intensity she needs to show him is difficult to maintain in a whisper only.

"You won't be doing anything like this again on your own. We'll do it together. We'll find a a way to break the curse, we will, I swear it to you. But first, something else needs to take care of and we can't do this if we're separated. _Think_ about it, Julian. There will be a fight over who gets to run the Institute. Diana won't do it, you can't, Arthur is gone. We have Helen back, but her position is precarious with the Cohort still running around and spitting venom at Downworlders. They'll try and use the chaos in order to get their Registry through the Council as fast as possible. We absolutely can't risk a break between Downworlder and Shadowhunters, not when the Unseelie King has Annabel and the Black Volume, not when there is a mysterious illness spreading among the warlocks. Who knows what the vampire and werewolves are going through right now. A war will finish us, Julian. And Ty and the others…"

The flash of pain in his eyes is excruciating. Emma slides into his personal space again, wraps her arms around him.

"You can't leave them. You _won't_ , and neither will I. There is no place to go for either one of us, and you know it."

His voice cracks. "The Inquisitor-"

"You know Robert Lightwood is dead." She can see his face: realization, dread and acceptance, all flashing over his features so quickly they merge into each other. "And I bet anything the Dearborns will try to take over _his_ position, too. I wouldn't trust them as far as I can throw a church."

Her humor falls flat, she knows, but that is not the point here. She has thought of it, desperately, over and over again, keeping watch over Livvy in the dark hall with Julian at her side, keeping watch over _Julian_ who was drowning in grief up to the point that he hadn't even realized she was there.

He is still in denial. "We should tell someone –"

Emma shakes her head violently. "We _can't_ tell anyone. They would strip our Marks and separate us, and then..."

She doesn't need to say what comes after: without their strength, they have nothing to protect the kids with. Mark, Ty, Dru and Tavvy would be separated. Mark would struggle, Ty's being different wouldn't be accepted, Dru and Tavvy - she doesn't even want to think of them, alone and lost. And Kit, too. Kit, somehow, has become part of the family in the past weeks, and she loathes even the thought of him being taken, as much as she loathes the thought of losing one of the other Blackthorn children.

It terrifies her as much as the possibility of losing Julian.

"No." His grip on her becomes so tight she can't breathe properly, and yet she makes no move to shift away. "No. I won't let them. It's the only way. I'll go into exile and you'll…"

"Julian."

Emma knows one thing now, and she knows it with a clarity that gives her strength, if only a little. It is one of the things that have carried her over the past few days, despite the terrible, bone-shaking grief for Livvy.

 _Livvy. I'm so, so sorry. We couldn't protect you._

"You are not leaving. The kids need you, Julian. _Ty_ needs you. Dru and Mark need you. And Helen does, too. Tavvy barely knows her, you can't leave him with her just like that."

"Emma, we can't stay together –"

"And I am not leaving you." Her voice is steel. She can feel him flinch, senses it both through their _parabatai_ bond and through the air between them. "It's not an option."

She takes a deep breath.

"We can't leave now, Julian, neither you nor I. We need to stay here, together. We need to be with the kids now. We'll make it work. Don't worry. You don't have to take all those burdens on all by yourself. I'm your _parabatai._ Julian, _please._ Don't go."

* * *

Something wet splashes onto his shirt. Emma is crying – for Livia, for Ty, for the other kids. For Annabel and Kieran and Christina and Mark, and, most of all, for Julian. He knows from the way her fingers ghost over his cheeks, from the way she leans her forehead against his and closes her eyes.

Because this is the way Emma is: Emma is _kind_.

She is kind where Julian is calculating, patient when he is impatient, Emma sees the larger picture when he focusses on the details. Emma takes the bow and arrows when he only thinks of short-range weapons, Emma smiles to take the sting out of his words. Emma leans forward to soothe the injuries he has caused, and she soothes his wounds, too, because _that is just the way she is._

Dazed, Julian follows the outline of her shoulder blades with his hands, familiar, so sharp and refined, and knows with ground-shaking surety: there is no Julian Blackthorn without Emma Carstairs.

 _You hope the exile will deaden those feelings,_ the Inquisitor had said. How wrong he had been.

"Julian," Emma whispers. "Don't leave me."

As if he could, when she begs him not to. He _should._ He should love her enough to walk away. But it doesn't work that way. Probably that is because Julian, despite however much he hates it, is selfish until the end: he'd rather have her for a short time than not ever, even if it kills him. _Her._ Or maybe it is because he cannot say no to her, not like this. Whatever it is, it leaves him with a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach, and a relief so bone-shaking he feels like he can never stand again.

The word is acid in his throat, but the pain pales in comparison to everything he is already feeling. "Okay."

 _Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God._

Emma's head comes up; she looks at him, and there is sorrow and grief and guilt etched into her features. But also: love, shining, all-encompassing, searing love, so much and so unconditional that he can't swallow past the lump in his throat.

The sight of her steals his breath away, every time.

Emma is beautiful, always was. Her beauty is nothing intangible, not like the night in Fairy Country or the silence before daybreak, when the sun touches the horizon. Emma is beautiful in the way she breathes, talks and fights, in the way her hair dances around her face when she runs. In the way Cortana blazes, a living sword glowing from the inside, as if it carried the justice meted out by angels in its blade. Emma is like a sword: beautiful, dangerous, so sharp the cut doesn't even hurt until later on.

Julian looks at her and thinks that this is the way angels die: soundless, in silent, grief-stricken glory.

* * *

Julian Blackthorn sold his soul a long time ago: for the protection of his family, all those precious lives that fell under his responsibility. Sold it for all those he loves with an intensity that would scare him, if he stopped to think about it.

Incidentally, so did Emma Carstairs. For the exact same reasons.


End file.
